#but ya know how things go

[neostellarjpg]

i like ralsei hes so regular and nothings going on with him

[electrozeistyking]

"She's Gone"

This bad boy was started on the third of November, and finished on the seventh. In total, there are thirty panels (all of which were drawn separately).

A good chunk of N's dialogue near the end came to me after I did some improv to figure out what he should say. I have since dubbed it "N's Failure Monologue."

[aggro-my-beloved]

if aggro is meowing constantly, one of the following will happen:

• sweetheart will treat it like an actual conversation. *meow* “no they didn’t” *meow* “and then what?” typa stuff

• david can’t get a single sentence out without being cut off. “please” *meow* “shut” *meow* “the fuck” *meow* “UP!”

• angel will meow back slightly louder to assert their dominance.

• darlin’ will pretend they are the latest and greatest animal whisperer, petting the cat as they carry on. *meow* *meow*

“mhm…i see…” *looks to milo* “he said he likes sweetheart better”

*from the other room* “pfft, who doesn’t?”

“hey!”

• baabe will be this cat’s professional hype man.

*meow* “yes king! speak your truth!” *meow* “and that’s on periodt”

• finally, asher will think aggro is bored and wants a playmate and will proceed to shift without hesitation. he assumed incorrectly. aggro is now scared of asher, and will not go near him without hissing.

[mouse-fantoms]

If ya’ll think I’m not crying like a baby about this then let me inform you 😭😅

[ghost-proofbaby]

It's summer for you, winter for me. Warm me up with strawberry fluff! As always, my muse, your muse, the one and only, Eddie.

Midsummer's night, because I don't have a lot to inspire you with. I'm thinking something cute but weird? Maybe some human body softness where Eddie is a bit of a freak and we love him for it. And we're told our bodies are lovely, even when they're doing weird shit.

I lalalove youuuuu. xo Rhi

RHI!!!! <3 i adore you. thank you for this prompt - i had far too many ideas for it, but ended up on settling for this one, which coincidentally feels like the most subtle of them all? either way, it definitely turned out being the softest. give me an eddie munson who just wants to sniff me like a dog. this definitely got a bit long but i hope you enjoy, my dear <3

the smell of you

warnings: weirdos in love? idk. i have a skewed sense of what is actually weird i think. mentions of death and coffins jokingly. eddie 'manhandles' reader sort of. not edited.

wc: 2.2k+

come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3

“Eddie?”

The entire apartment is quiet – too quiet – as you drop your keys into the old crystal bowl on the counter. The clink resonates through the air, louder than the soft murmur of the stereo static you can hear from down the hall. 

“You dead?” you call out again, slipping off your running shoes and tossing down your headphones onto the counter as well now, “Do I need to call the coroner?” 

Your tone is lilted, teasing with airiness as you continue to wander deeper into the apartment and head straight for the room you know Eddie has to be in. Like the waves pulled by the moon, there’s an incessant string tied around one end of your soul that connects you to his, and you follow it all the way down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, and you can hear his mumbled yell of a response without clarity before you even cross the threshold. 

You wouldn’t have even needed him to verbally respond to find him in this tiny apartment. You two could get separated on the streets of a bustling city, of a buzzing New York sidewalk, and you still wouldn’t properly lose him. It’s more than just soul ties and his gravity that keeps you pulled to him. 

Something unspoken. Something homely. 

“Sorry, what was that?” you hum as you spy him face-down in the bed, pillow muting him by the mouthful, “Say it one more time, and this time not into the pillow.” 

When he finally properly turns over, he’s a vision. Sleep lines folded into his skin and a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting in irritation not at you but the sunlight flooding in through the bedroom window. Messy hair, messy shirt, messy everything. A kind of mess you just want to collapse into currently, curling up in all that he is from the day’s exhaustion. 

He’d mentioned wanting to take a nap before you’d left for the gym. Something about the summer heat draining him, trailing off as he’d rambled about how he’d probably thrive as a vampire. 

“I said,” he huffs, sitting up, the frizz of his hair becoming a makeshift halo, “If you call the coroner, request the comfiest coffin possible.”

“Why do you need a comfy coffin if you’re already dead?” 

“You dare deny me of being buried in tempurpedic memory foam? In my hour of need?” 

You roll your eyes as you huff out a little laugh, forcing yourself to turn away from him long enough to strip out of your socks. But just as you reach down for the pieces of clothing, you catch sight of the source of that stereo static flooding the room. 

Your shared record player, spinning a blood red pressing of one of your more recent vinyl purchases. The album has been played through, but the player no longer had an automatic stop mechanism, probably from years of use. 

The center of the record is probably scratched, and Eddie knows it, from how sheepish he looks when you glance over your shoulder at him. 

“Speaking of death,” you walk over quickly, purposefully, before carefully lifting the needle and cutting the static finally, “Care to explain why you’re burning scratches into my Momento Mori vinyl?” 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scooches quickly to the end, clearly fully awake now, “I put it on and thought I’d just lay down for a quick second, but then the bed was so comfy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap, and then…” he trails off, looking up at you through his lashes with big eyes already pleading for forgiveness, “I’ll buy you a new one. Swear it.” 

It’s impossible to be mad at him when he’s looking like this, inhumanely soft and easily forgiven, “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you really would be dead.” 

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead the outstretch of his hands, fingers flexing as he beckons to you. The needle rests on its perch, the vinyl left behind to gather dust for a few extra moments, as you go straight to him. 

When his palms slip beneath your old t-shirt and meet your skin, they’re pleasantly warm. 

“You were right,” you admit as his knees spread, delegating even more room for you to stand in front of him as your hand wanders to cradle the side of his face, fingers tangling in sweaty curls from his rest. Your thumb mimics his on your own skin instinctively, tracing a large arch right up over his cheekbone, “It’s hot as balls outside.” 

“Told you so,” he murmurs, smiling softly in satisfaction as he leans lazily into your touch. 

“You did,” you agree quietly, half-entranced by his relaxed face, no sight of pride in the room currently. 

He resembles a cat as he continues to preen under your gentle hand, and you almost expect him to start purring right before you find the strength to pull away, removing his hands from where they'd wandered to your lower back. 

One swipe of his finger along your sweaty spine, and you’d remembered what your original intentions had been immediately upon getting home. 

“Wai- Where are you going?” he’s seemingly brought back down to Earth the moment he loses the pattern your thumb had been tracing, the press of your fingertips into his scalp. When he reaches back out to latch onto you again, you take a step back, “Get back here-”

“I need to shower,” you laugh, shaking your head and smacking his hands away as he continues to barter, “I’m all sweaty and smelly, let me go clean up and then we can nap togeth-” 

“You can shower after we nap,” he nearly whines, finally catching your shirt between his fingers and tugging, uncaring for if he stretches the fabric. A small price to pay to have you close to him, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.” 

You swear you meant to take another step backwards, but somehow, you end up back between his knees, “Did you not hear me, Munson? I stink.”

“Good.” 

He doesn’t give you any time to react – in an instant, he’s throwing his face forward, burying it against your stomach as you let out a gasp and immediately try to pry him away with far too gentle of hands in his hair. 

“Eddie!”

If it were anyone else, you’d probably be mortified. But Eddie just takes a dramatic deep breath in, nose buried just shy of your belly button, and when his shoulders start to shake with muted laughter, you can’t stop the smile from breaking. Your fingers are still twisted in his hair, still pulling back in an attempt to get him away from you, but he’s resilient. 

And all your faux resistance is weak in comparison. Soon enough, you’re back to melting into him. 

Only once you’re relaxed once more, no sign of trying to pull away again any time soon as his hands once more evade the space beneath your shirt to wander up and down your sticky skin without a care in the world, does he lift his face away from you long enough to breathe and speak, “I’ll have you know – I love your stink.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I’m your idiot.” 

The game of banter is cut short when he goes back to pressing his nose into your clothes that surely can’t smell good. No amount of deodorant or perfume could erase that underlying stench of sweat. Hell, the shirt is still a bit moist from it all: from the walk to the gym, from your workout itself, from the walk home. It’d been through the ringer, and you’re back to tugging him away from you. 

“I refuse to believe you like how gross I smell right now,” you reinforce, eyes darting towards the bathroom connected to your master bedroom, “I promise I’ll be quick with the shower.” 

“Baby,” he fights back, wrapping his arms around you securely, no intention of losing this battle, “You remember that time we went to the fair, and you were complaining about how you were sweating, so I tried to lick your face?” 

Your nose scrunches quickly at the memory, “I do, unfortunately.”

“You really think I’d be willing to lick the sweat off your body but be afraid of you smelling a little bad while we cuddle?” his shoulders drop as he looks up at you, head tilted, almost as if amused with the conversation, “What kind of man do you take me for?” 

“The kind that gets off on annoying me.” 

His jaw drops, putting on a fake look of offense before he dramatically throws himself back onto the bed, laying flat as he makes a fist to mimic stabbing his chest, “You wound me.”

You’ve heard those words a thousand times in a hundred different ridiculous voices. You’ve seen this scene enough to have it mesmerized at this point, down to the over-exaggerated pout of his lips and the lingering of the fist against his sternum. 

You never grow tired of it. You never will. 

“Need me to kiss it better?” you joke as you prop a knee up on the bed, following the same script as always. 

And he hits his queue perfectly when he lifts his head eagerly at the expected response, wiggling his brows a bit. “Absolutely. Doctor’s orders, in fact.” 

“Great,” you see an opportunity, and take it, “I’ll get right to it, after my showe-” 

You don’t even get the final syllable of the word off your tongue before he’s clenching his thighs around your own, knees pressing hard before he wraps his legs the rest of the way around your waist to pull you in. A squeak of surprise leaves your lips as you begin to fall forward, but Eddie is quick to break the fall with ease. Catching you with his eager hands, maneuvering for you to half drop to the mattress while some of you still lands atop of him. 

He has you right where he wants you, turning his head to be face to face with you, noses nearly brushing, “Unfortunately, the doc said you have to kiss it better now, or else you’ll be comfy coffin shopping.” 

“A fatal wound?” you gasp, nearly mocking him. It doesn’t offend him – if anything, his boyish grin only grows wider, “First, I’m smelly-”

“Again, I like when you’re smelly.”

“-And then I inflict a fatal wound upon my lover? Oh, how dare I.”

Slowly, all your insecurity of how you currently smell is simply fading. The entire ordeal has become an art of childlike, whimsical jokes – and Eddie is an artist. A professional at the dance, locked and loaded with his incomparable skill set equipped for disarming you this way. The ability to make someone feel loved, imperfections and weirdness aside. 

He likes you, even when you claim you don’t smell your best. And you like him, even when his hair is tangled beyond recognition and one of his socks is half-hanging off his foot from a nap.

You like him when he’s embarrassing you in public, tongue chasing after you with the threat of licking your sweat away, and he likes you when all you can do in response is a weak palm to his chest (that isn’t even making an effort to push him away) as you giggle relentlessly. 

You like each other on the good days, the bad days, the weird days. 

Disarmed entirely, you don’t even notice when his face conveniently slots itself far too close to your armpit as you two scooch further up into the bed. You’re more occupied with the way your legs tangle up, toeing each other’s socks off properly as he slings a heavy arm across your torso. 

“We’re gonna have to wash the sheets,” you mumble, exhaustion catching up as the two of you finally settle. 

He hums absentmindedly, nuzzling into your skin a bit further as he makes himself comfortable. “And wash away your sweet, sweet stink? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, unbothered as your fingers start to trail up and down his back over the t-shirt, smoothing out wrinkles along the way, “I’m serious. We need to change them soon anyways, I think I got crumbs in the bed the other night with those crackers.” 

“Bury me in the crumbs of all your midnight snacks,” he almost slurs, clearly drifting back off. 

You snort in response, relaxing and letting your own eyes shut. Matching all your deep breaths with his own, a million different last words crossing your mind to whisper to the boy you’re sure is once again asleep. 

I love you.

I adore you. 

I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. 

And maybe some of those unspoken thoughts slip out without you realizing, because he squeezes you just a little bit tighter, presses his face just a little bit deeper into your skin as his scruff tickles you. 

The only actual thought you can know for certain that you say, though, is, “Do you think they actually make coffins with memory foam inside?” 

To your surprise, even despite the almost-snores that had been escaping him, he answers in a heartbeat. 

“Oh, definitely. We’ll order two.”

[inspector-m3]

Thomas shelby x male reader drabble thingy idk

I've started watching peaky blinders and Im ill which made me think of this and it wont go away so now it's everyone else's problem too.

I've only watched one season so far so might bot be accurate to his character but im trying ;-;

warnings?: mentions of war, scars (not SH), possible PTSD stuff?? violence, alcohol, swearing...im really bad at warnings but i think that's everything unless you need a warning for the french too (jk)

Thinking about Thomas Shelby who owes you a favour. You own your own little group of miscreants but you dont deal with guns or betting, you grew a hate for guns after the war and made a rule to anyone who entered your pub that no guns were allowed. And you didn't do betting because there was too mich competition and dick measuring going on.

What you did deal in and make a living off of, was information, connections, you knew how to get things and what people had done behind closed doors, you were the eyes and ears in the walls. So of course Thomas had come to you for information, but he knew you wouldn't give it for free which is why he offered you a favour.

"anythin you want...any time, just for the information on the blokes I wrote down on that paper"

He says to you, and you take the offer, having the favour of a peaky blinder was valuable.

But what you weren't prepared for was how you'd use this favour.

It's late at night, your group had gotten into some trouble, a fight with another group that you'd prodded the bear with too much. You loose a few of your men, and that bothered you but what shook you the most out of your calm composure was the use of guns in that fight, the ringing was still in your ears as you stood outside Thomas Shelby's door.

When he opens the door you dont even greet him, just blurt out.

"im cashing in that favour. "

To which he raises an eyebrow but lets you in anyways, waiting silently as he tries to neaten his hair, messed up by a rough sleepless night.

"fuck......can i stay?...just for the night?"

You quickly realise how that sounds and sigh before trying to fix it.

"shit, not like that...i just...i just need to hear a heartbeat that isn't my own"

And somehow you got the great Thomas Shelby to agree on your favour, he convinces himself that it's just a favour, that it doesn't mean anything. But the fact you came to him instead of anyone else almost warmed his cold heart. He knew how it felt when the war wouldn't leave, when it made a home in your head and buried itself deep into your bones so that when they creak all you remember are the cries of your comrades.

So there you are, settled on his bed with your head on his chest, listening to the soft thuds of his heart. Your arms are tucked closely to yourself, trying to have the only contact being your head on his chest because this was humiliating enough as it was.

Your eyes close as you focus on the sound of his heart, it drowns out the sound of guns from both today's fight and the war, the sound of your own heart beating too fast because your body seems to still think there's a frenchman nearby and waiting with another gun.

You don't even realise you fell asleep until you wake up to the unfortunate reality that people tend to move in their sleep, finding your arms entwined around Thomas, your legs tangled with his.

Thomas himself was just as surprised when he hadn't heard any shovels that night and then awoke to see his hand ever so gently cradling your head to his chest, almost as a reflex he brushes his thumb across your shortly cropped hair. His eyes trail down, only now noticing the scars from war across your back and arms, he almost touched them and would've if he didn't know that it would probably wake you up.

You both untangled yourselves and lay apart and in silence when you were more awake.

"....this never happened."

You both agree in silence, knowing what would happen if anyone found out as well as the risk of getting attached which was never even thought about by either of you.

It was never spoken of again, both of you going back to just business, you almost forgot about it too.

Until you were sat in your pub, drinking peacefully with the chatter of the men, only to be disturbed when Thomas Shelby walks in, looking more unnaproachable than usual, he makes a beeline for you and murmurs something you weren't expecting.

"i need a heartbeat"

and it clicked, it was like an accidental secret code because no-one else knew what happened that night.

[scatterbrainedbot]

the trouble with being the one who survives is you must keep on doing it

inspired directly by @onionninjasstuff 's heart wrenching comic of Future Donnie's death (read it!!)

[wired-heartbeats]

For the record I think Vox is being effected and possibly swayed by Val’s poison just like Angel is, the pink signifying it on Angel shows up on Voxs screen during and after interacting and being influenced by Val directly, when Vox is operating independently it isn’t an actual normal feature of his

This paired with an earlier moment from episode 2 when Val first mentioned something had happened with Angel Dust, Vox seemed happy about the idea of Angel quitting

“He quit? :D”

It’s interesting for sure, makes me wonder what Vox actually thinks about Angel, and more importantly, actually thinks about Valentino. He’s a business man, and clearly the Vees all teamed up (at least initially) because it helps elevate their status and power spread, they may be friendly with each other but we as an audience don’t actually know if there’s more to it as of now. But still, interesting

[atiredjew]

with how often i have to block years old mutuals for spreading blood libel it's not gonna be long before my dash is only jewish accounts

[malartsorte]

Well I guess i went mad and made more of these. The first post where I talk of my headcanon for Clikito's mask is this one!

[deadpoetsandlivinglegends]

Headcanon that Meeks will sometimes speak before thinking and half the time it’s some like flirting dirty joke that shoulda stayed an inside thought (“yes sir 😏” like ok freak [affectionate]), and half the time he says something that makes him sound like a grandma

[rondoel]

Catswing tells a chunk of Spamton and Tenna's story and I love it

[fidgetspringer]

This is going to interest exactly no one except myself, but still.

We've all seen the chaos that is the Flight Radar right?

That's a lot of planes.

But are you ready for the insanity that is the Ship Radar?

Because it's nuts.

(Red are tankers, green are cargo.)

And if you watch for long enough you'll start to realise some vessels do some weird things. Like this tiny tug boat that has been doing exactly this for going on three days straight.

You good??

[yapaholique]

khan dropping random dadlore™ on uzi like ‘ya this isn’t even my real hand so i’m kind of ambidextrous’

[54prowl]

NEW THEME!!!1 YAY <3

freak lover era

old theme compilation

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Sometimes I think this:

This writer is of the firm belief that our tears become holy in the form of ink on a page. Once we have spoken our saddest story, we can be free of it. And then all that’s left behind is the tortured poetry.

Might be one of the most insightful statements Taylor has ever said about her creative process and gets lost in the discourse about "what" or "who" her songs are about.